


Not the Hugging Type

by C4t1l1n4



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fire, Geralt thinks Jaskier is dead for like 2 seconds, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Happy Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, but like barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4t1l1n4/pseuds/C4t1l1n4
Summary: While Geralt is out on a hunt, Jaskier risks his life to save a child from a house fire.OrGeralt doesn't know how to show that he cares for people with his words, so he resorts to a more physical approach instead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 499





	Not the Hugging Type

**Author's Note:**

> I have never read, played, or watched the Witcher. Sorry for any OOCness. 
> 
> Barely edited.

It’s the horrid smell that draws his attention more than anything else, really.

Despite what Geralt may believe, Jaskier finds himself staying behind more often than not when the Witcher has a contract. He’s curled up in the bed, notebook in hand, resting against the headboard when he’s pulled out of his creative haze by the smell of smoke. 

It’s the scream that has him jolting off the soft mattress, scrambling over to the small window for a better look. Fire licks at one of the houses, a sharp contrast from the steadily falling night. Jaskier is down the stairs and into the street without a second thought, joining the crowd that huddles outside the house, mourning as it burns. Some try to quell the raging blaze with buckets of water, but there's not much of it, and everyone can tell it's not helping.

A woman comes bursting out through the front door, coughing, with tears running down her cheeks. “Please!” She wails, voice rough from the smoke, “My baby.” She doesn’t get anything else out, but the way the smoke curls through her lungs, intertwining with the words she speaks, pulls on the bard's poor heartstrings. 

He makes his way over to her side, leading her away from the burning house to a more safe distance. 

“Please.” She says again, softer this time, latching onto Jaskier’s arm with a shaky grip. “My little girl is still inside.”

Maybe it’s because he’s been traveling with Geralt for so long, or the way she pleads with him or the fact that he’s a sap for happy endings, but he nods his assent, diving headfirst into the house through the front door. 

He briefly hears someone yell that it’s not safe and Geralt crosses his mind for a fleeting second, but he’s already inside, surrounded by flickering flames and hazy smoke. There’s no point in turning back now. He curses that he didn’t think to ask where said little girl might be, smoke stinging his eyes. 

Nothing like going in blind. 

“Hello?” He calls over the roar of the fire, heat scorching the inside of his lungs as he takes a deep breath. “I’m here to help!” He tries again. 

“Help.” He hears a small voice from a distant corner, and his gaze is immediately drawn to where a young girl, no older than 3 or 4, sits curled in a corner. Cornflower eyes meet baby blue and it’s like taking a breath of fresh air in this haze of oranges and reds. Strands of blond lay in a mess around her face, littered with ash, tears staining her cheeks. “Please, mister.” She croaks, and Jaskier is propelled into action as she reaches out to him and coughs, her whole body shaking with the effort. 

He rushes over, scooping her into his arms, and she buries her face into his chest almost instantaneously, despite the fact that he’s a complete stranger. Jaskier heads for the front door as soon as he’s sure he won’t drop the little one in his haste, but the fire blazes bright in front of him, making him hesitate.

The decision is made for him, however, as a piece of the roof comes crashing down in front of him, forcing him to leap back in order to not get hit. The girl coughs again, tightening her hold on Jaskier’s shirt, fingers desperately latching onto his silken doublet. Jaskier’s heart skips a beat, mind racing. His gaze falls down to the girl. 

“Is there any other way out of here?” He asks, eyes darting around the room for any more possible falling debris. 

“Back door?” The girl suggests, but it sounds more like a question than a confident answer. 

Jaskier whirls around, ducking through another room and then another before he spots it. Without waiting for anything else to ruin their escape, he darts through the back door into the cool nighttime air. 

——  
Geralt gets back in time to see the house collapse. 

He’s immediately alert, despite the tired coursing through his veins, potions wearing off. “What’s happening?” He demands. 

The man closest to him looks up, wringing his hands. “Mrs. Angie’s house caught fire,” the man explains, “but her daughter is still inside.” Geralt starts to head towards the house, but the man catches him by the arm. “Your bard went in to go get her.” Ice travels through his veins, freezing the Witcher on the spot. His golden gaze flickers from the poor excuse of a house to the man and back again. The man’s voice is sad now, “There’s no point for you to rush in and get hurt too.” 

As much as Geralt hates to admit, deep down he knows the man is right. The man pats his shoulder once and then turns back to watch the house burn with the rest of the crowd. Suddenly, someone up closer gasps and Geralt pushes his way forward to see what happened. He watches Jaskier round the corner of the house, a little girl in his arms. 

A woman - one who Geralt figures is Angie - cries out with joy. “Oh, my sweet Willow!” She rushes over to Jaskier, scrambling to take the child from his arms. Geralt isn’t far behind. He doesn’t need his Witcher senses to see the way both his bard and Willow cough and wheeze. The woman pulls Jaskier into a bone-crushing, and Geralt takes note of the way it knocks all the air out of his lungs. 

“They’re going to need to see a healer.” Geralt says, startling them.

The woman barely spares Geralt a glance but seems to realize he’s right and hurries off to find one, thanking Jaskier one last time before she goes. Jaskier meets Geralt's gaze and sends him a brilliant smile. 

“How’s the hunt?” He asks as if Geralt didn’t just watch him walk out of a burning building, covered head to toe in ash. Geralt just stares. “I would give you a hug too,” Jaskier teases nonsensically, “but you don’t seem the type.” 

Bewildered - and at a total loss for words - Geralt pulls him into a hug instead, unable to verbalize the sheer stupidity of Jaskier’s disregard for his own safety. 

“Oh, well,” Jaskier says, obviously caught off guard. “This is nice.” He relaxes into the Witcher’s grip, eyes fluttering shut. 

“You can’t just do that.” Geralt says finally, gentling pushing Jaskier back, depositing him at arm's length. 

Jaskier’s eyes snap open. “Do what? Help people?”

“Almost get yourself killed.” 

Jaskier splutters indignantly. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you, Witcher. You can run off every couple of days to fight a monster but gods forbid I help a woman save her child? That’s hardly fair.”

Geralt hums in agreement, lost and confused by the emotions tumbling inside him as well. 

“So tell me, Dear Witcher. Explain your reasoning for such demands.” 

Geralt stumbles over his words, an explanation dying on his lips. 

“I’m waiting~” Jaskier sing songs, tapping his foot with his arms crossed. “Use your words, Geralt.”

“I- I don’t,” Geralt isn’t a man of words though, he’s a man of action, so he settles with grabbing Jaskier by the collar of his doublet and yanking him forward, off-balance. Jaskier teeters on the edge for a second before crashing forward into Geralt’s chest. The Witcher’s other hand reaches up and curls around the back of the bard's neck, pulling him forward into a searing kiss. _There,_ Geralt thinks, _that should get the point across._

“Don’t think we won’t have a proper conversation later,” Jaskier threatens, “but I’ve been waiting too long for this to stop now.” Jaskier leans forwards again, pressing his lips against the Witcher’s. 

Someone lets out a wolf whistle in the background, and the small crowd around them cheers, but they ignore it. 

They have better things to do, after all.


End file.
